


The Many Near-Deaths of the Great Johnny Quid

by second_hand_heaven



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: (a warning of its own), Archy especially, Blood, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Caretaking, Drug Use, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Heroin, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lenny Cole - Freeform, Needles, Overdosing, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Rehabilitation, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, they just care about each other a lot okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 07:51:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20756912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_hand_heaven/pseuds/second_hand_heaven
Summary: Johnny Quid is unkillable. A cockroach. A toxin. A cat with only a few lives left. Johnny isn't dead yet, despite his best efforts, and Archy's got a lot to do with that.(Six times Johnny was dying, and one where he felt alive (feat. Archy every step of the way))





	The Many Near-Deaths of the Great Johnny Quid

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the content warnings in the tags. Graphic violence on par with the canon material, plus child abuse, suicide attempts, mentions of blood and needles, drug use/addiction, overdoses, suicidal thoughts, withdrawal, and all the heavy baggage along with it. Please take care.

The knock on the door is unexpected but it’s gentle enough that Archy’s pretty sure it’s not the coppers. Gentle enough that he almost misses it over the inane carols blaring from the telly. He's very tempted to leave it, the fucker can come back another time. If it were important, if it were Len, there'd have been a call, ranting and raving about that stepson of his, or a goon that needs Archy's fine touch. He's tempted to leave it, but his glass is empty, the bottle still in the kitchen, right by the door. With a grunt, he peels himself out of his leather armchair and heads to the door. 

His visitor’s a hell of a lot shorter than he expected. “John?”

The boy is black and blue, looking right up at him with defiance welling in his eyes. “Alright, Unc-cle Arch?”

“The fuck you doing here? It’s freezing out.”

“H-hardly not-t-t-iced,” he says, teeth chattering behind a split lip. 

Archy sighs and steps aside. “Get inside, you idiot.”

He shepherds the boy into the sitting room and sets him down on the sofa. Johnny’s split lip and swollen eye are easily catalogued, and Archy doesn’t miss the discomfort on John’s face when the boy sits down, adding ‘a good hiding’ to the list of injuries. 

The boy’s still shivering. Miserable sod. Archy takes the throw rug -and honestly, since when was he the type to have a throw rug?- off the back of the sofa and wraps it around the boy’s shoulders. Johnny clutches at the blanket, drawing it tighter around himself. His knuckles are bruised, lightly smeared with drying blood. He fought back, Archy thinks, oddly chuffed at the notion. Good lad. 

“Back in a minute,” Archy tells him, and ducks into the kitchen. 

He digs out a tin of cocoa from the back of the cupboard and pops the kettle on. If John were a mite older, he'd offer the boy some whiskey, but Archy figures ten might be a bit soon to start a poor lifetime habit. 

Speaking of bad habits though, how on earth did Johnny get so banged up? A scuffle with some local lads seems like the best bet, but the hiding doesn’t quite make sense. 

He hands the boy a mug and settles on the couch beside him. 

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” he asks eventually. 

It’s a rhetorical question but Johnny still looks rather thoughtful, even with his black eye. “I don’ think so, Arch. Was cutting it a bit close there for a while, but.”

Archy frowns at him. “An’ what’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Lenny’s in a mood,” Johnny says. 

“Your dad did this?”  _ Christ _ , Archy thinks, it’s Christmas Eve for fucks sake. 

“He didn’t take too kindly to my music choice.”

Archy massages his temples, his elbows digging into his knees. “Christ,” he says aloud this time.

“I’m okay, Arch. Really.”

And doesn’t that just shatter Archy’s heart a little bit more. “I’ll make up the couch,” Archy says, and vows to have a word to Len tomorrow about Johnny. “You can stay here tonight.”

Before he knows it, he's got two small arms and a blanket wrapping him up in a strangling hug, a nose digging into his sternum. 

Archy takes a breath and slowly returns the hug. “You’re alright, lad. You're alright.”

* * *

ii.

It’s his sixteenth birthday and Johnny’s more than happy to spend it in his room away from anyone and everyone. He’s sixteen and he should be out with his mates, trying to get a beer in a pub that won’t ask too many questions or ask for ID. He’s sixteen and he should be in with a girl, or whoever, celebrating in his bed, instead of lying here all alone. He's sixteen and he's sawn right through the veins in his wrists, waiting for his fumbling heartbeat to do the trick. 

Just like his Mum. It might be nice to see her again, if he believed in all that afterlife stuff. Johnny’s not too sure about that, which he thinks, belatedly, is a shame. He should know where he’s aiming on going before he leaves, you know?

There's a knock at his bedroom door. 

“Everything alright?”

Archy. Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck. Johnny tries to answer him, he really does, but all that comes out is a strangled groan. 

"John?" A pause. "You right?"

"Fuck off!"

The door slams open, rattling on its hinges, and then Archy's standing at the foot of Johnny's bed, his gun drawn. Said gun falls away when Archy takes in the scene. The blood must be horrible, Johnny thinks. He didn't think there'd be so much. 

"What have you done?"Archy's eyes are wide, but his mouth’s pressed together in a solid line. “You stupid boy,” Archy growls, lunging forward. “You stupid, stupid boy.”

And then Archy’s talking, but not to him. Well then, that's a bit rude. It's not like Johnny'll be around much longer to notice, or care, about it. 

So he just lays there while Archy swears into his phone, blandly registering the wadded-up cloth (a shirt maybe?) pressed hard into his wounds soaking up the blood, turning a violent shade of burgundy. Archy’s holding his wrists, tight, hard enough that it hurts too much to keep his eyes open. 

“C’mon John,” Archy says, might even be pleading, “keep your eyes open. Look at me, eh? Look at Uncle Arch.”

Johnny tries, he really does, but following instructions is hardly his strong suit. Issues with authority, his last headmaster told him, right before they kicked him to the curb.

“John!” The yelling, punctuated by a sharper grip on Johnny’s bleeding wrists, peels back John’s eyelids. Archy’s staring at him, fiercely enough like he’s staring right through, his phone tucked between his shoulder and jaw.

"They're on their way, be here in just a minute. You've just got to hang on until then, alright?" 

"Doesn't matter," Johnny slurs, "doesn’t fucking matter.” His eyes flutter shut again, and the world fades away. 

* * *

iii.

Archy pulls the car over into the loading bay out the front of the bar, uncaring. The manager had called Archy twenty minutes ago, and how the woman knew to call him, Archy isn't so sure, but he's thankful that she did. John goes off the rails often enough that Archy knows this isn't going to be pretty. He’s been out of prison for six months, and that was nothing compared to this. 

He steps out of the car and slams the door shut. His coat pocket is heavy as he charges past the bouncer and into the club. 

The manager is waiting for him. "Where the hell is he?" he growls at the woman. Who, to her credit, doesn't flinch, doesn't run. Barely blinks, truth be told, and maybe Archy's losing his touch, or maybe she's seen enough tough-men in her time to know how to handle them, to know to react is to give in. 

They’ve hauled him into a private room and rolled him out on a black vinyl-posing-as-leather couch. John’s lying there, thankfully on his side, and stiller than Archy’s seen in far too long. He’s breathing, just, and that’s when Arch releases that breath he’s been holding since he got their phone call. 

“How long?” Archy asks the small crowd gathering in the room. 

The onlookers oggle each other, silent. Not helpful. Again, Archy asks, menacing as he can, “ _ how long?” _

“Bout ten minutes before she called you,” the junkie closest to him says. Archy learned a very long time ago to never trust a junkie, but right now, he doesn’t have much else to go on. John's in an alright state, insofar as he's still breathing, legs and fingers twitching at random intervals. He's not dead, at the very least. Well. Not dead yet. 

Archy glares at the gathered crowd until they get the message and fuck off, leaving Archy alone with Johnny in this dingy back room. 

"John," Archy says, all matter-of-fact, "how are you feeling?" He's not in the mood for John's games at the best of times, and certainly isn't in the mood right now, with Johnny OD-ing right in front of him. 

“Alright, Arch?” Johnny smirks wearily up at him, heavy purple bags sinking into the hollows of his eye sockets. "What're you doing here?"

Does he even know what's happening? What's happening to him? Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy, adamant to kill himself and maybe Archy along with him. “Come to see you, John,” he tells him, though, schooling his features to keep the disappointment, and maybe the disgust off his face. 

He pulls the case from his coat pocket and unzips it. Laying it out on the coffee table, he takes the tourniquet and works it over in his hand, testing the flex of the material. 

Johnny is pliable, his arm limp as Archy manoeuvres him where he wants him and tightens the cord around his bicep. Abused veins slowly pulse to the surface, vibrant blue against the too-pale skin of Johnny's inner arm. Archy takes a fortifying breath. He's never been a fan of needles. 

He dabs the alcohol wipe across the track marks, old and new, littering the inside of John's elbow. John might not give a shit about that kind of this, but Archy does. He wants to make sure this is going to help Johnny, and not be one of the many, many things that have tried to kill him. 

Satisfied, he takes the small vial and a clean needle from the case. He tears the needle from its packaging and draws out a small measure of the drug from the vial. 

“This is going to hurt, John. I need you to hold still.”

Johnny groans and tries to twist away, further into the backrest of the couch. “No more,” he mumbles, “no more drugs.”

“It’s not drugs, John, it’s medicine. It’ll make it all better, alright?”  _ It'll stop you from killing yourself this time, accident or otherwise. _

"Don't want it. Don't like needles. Just want to sleep." 

His eyes slip closed, and Archy takes the opportunity to inject him. Johnny winces, but for a first, he doesn't complain. 

Archy's all eyes, watching for the slightest sign that something's gone wrong. John groans, but otherwise doesn't move. Stillness isn't a state to be associated with Johnny Quid. “Eyes open,” Archy tells him. “Can you do that for me?”

“I remember _ . _ ” It’s barely a whisper, but it knocks the air out of Archy’s chest. He’s remembering that too. Seems Johnny’s still as adamant to get himself killed as he was when he was a kid.

“Yeah. Yeah that’s right. You made it through that, and you’ll make it through this. Just keep your eyes on me, eh?”

“Hurts.”

“I know,” Archy says, but he doesn’t, he’s got no fucking clue. No clue what it’s like for a high to be stripped away so fiercely that he’s shaking with the withdrawal. At least it's working, though. That's a relief. 

Johnny's knees draw up to his chest, and for a moment Archy's sure the kid's going to vomit all over Archy's Oxfords. Johnny groans, one hand clutching his head, the other wrapped around his knees. Archy wants to reach for him, soothe him, and it's a tenderness that he hasn't felt since before his prison sentence. 

"Archy?" he whispers, smaller than anything. 

"Yeah?"

"Archy please." Johnny reaches out blindly, grabbing the air, Archy's coat, his sleeve, then finally his hand. "Archy please I need it."

Johnny's hand is damp, cool against Archy's own and twitching. There's a sharp, pink scar running across the inside of Johnny's wrist, and Archy doesn't need to look to know that Johnny's other wrist matches. "It's alright," he tries. "What do you need?"

"Fuck," Johnny pants, eyes screwed up tight. "I need some fucking smack. I'll do anything, okay, anything. Archy please, I'll be good. I'll be so good. Just give me something to take the edge off, alright? One more hit?"

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Archy's so close to backhanding the kid hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to shut him the fuck up. One more hit? Archy'll give him a hit, alright, give him a hit, a right old slap, and send him flying all the way to the best rehab centre in the country. 

He rips his hand out of Johnny's sweaty grip and is almost out the door before he remembers. Before he thinks, and thinks that it won't be a good fucking idea to leave a junkie to dry out like this. Alone. If he leaves, Johnny will just con his way into someone's stash and they'll be repeating this shitshow again, same time next week. 

But what can Archy do? He can't babysit the kid forever, can't make him actually give a shit. Can't make him care about what he's doing to himself and the people around him. This is Johnny's life, his choice, and Archy can't change that. 

"Archy, c'mon. I need you. I need you to help me. Always here for me, Arch, always here. Help me."

"I already have," he sneers, hating every moment of it. "But try as I might, I can't save you from yourself." Burned and betrayed, Archy storms from the room, ignoring Johnny's frantic cries. 

* * *

iv.

Summer's drawing to a close and Johnny's only been reported dead twice so far this year. That won't do, won't do at all. The conditions are perfectly brewing for another. Third time lucky and all that.

The yacht is boring. Boring people, boring music, boring drugs and boring ocean views. It’s all so mind-numbing, and not in the way that Johnny tends to like. 

He’s bored enough it might be time to kill himself again. 

The other Quidlickers had buggered off, the groupies and hanger-ons too. They’d probably fucked off together, having a nice little orgy on the lower deck without him. Well, good for them. They can fuck themselves stupid while Johnny contemplates his death, deaths, as the sun disappears beneath the waves of whatever piece of ocean they’ve ended up in. Fuck, Johnny doesn’t even fucking remember. All he knows is, he’s bored. 

It might not be so boring if Archy was here, some traitorous part of his mind suggests. Well. Archy would be boring, but teasing Archy, getting a rise out of him, maybe even one of those world-famous Archy slaps, that would be fun. Anger, concern, and something equally heated boiling beneath, roiling together in the tumultuous glare in Archy’s eyes. It's been a while since he earned himself one of those. 

Or Archy might be nice, like he could be sometimes. Usually while Johnny was dying. Calling him stupid, too, he might add, but always looking after him anyway. Always looking after him. 

No, he reminds himself, not always. Not when Archy was doing a four-stretch and Johnny was riding the train of success so fast he was swiftly going off the rails. Archy wasn't there when he had his stomach pumped after too much E and not enough brains. Archy wasn't there when he tried to swindle a dealer and got half his ribs cracked for the effort. Archy wasn't there when he OD'ed in heroin in that backroom, and- 

No wait, Archy was there. Archy's the one that saved him that night, late as usual, leaving early. 

Johnny leans back on the railing a little too far, catches himself just before he tips over the edge. The ocean beneath looks inviting as ink and Johnny wants it all under his skin. 

Archy's saved him enough times, but he's not here right now. He's not here. He's not here.  _ He's not here.  _

God, Archy. He wouldn’t like this one bit. His dad, or whatever Lenny is to John, he’d deal. Fuck, Len would be glad that Johnny’d done himself in, not cost anyone else the trouble. But Archy… 

Archy might be the only one left to care if Johnny sticks around or not. 

Ah, fuck. Too fucking bad. He closes his eyes and leans back, Archy's face burning bright behind his eyes.

* * *

v.

Mickey and Roman were alright blokes, but they weren’t exactly the brightest. In their defence, Johnny thinks to himself, they did have the threat of his dad and worse, his dad’s attack dog Archy, to concern themselves about. Not to mention the clubs. But still, bringing Johnny here wasn’t too smart. As long as they were still looking for him, they were useful. Johnny surrendered, sure, but that didn’t mean they had to take him in, now did it? Oh well, Johnny thinks. They made their bed, and Johnny’s, well, Johnny’s bed was made the moment his mother invited Lenny into hers. 

Well, if Len’s going to do him and the Wild Bunch in, he might as well enjoy what little time he has left. So he goads Archy, like always, and earns himself that slap he’s been craving. Gets shoved up against the elevator wall, too, for his troubles, and isn’t it nice to see Archy properly pissed off for once. “I’ll do you in myself,” Archy tells him, and yeah, Johnny thinks, he’d be happy if it was Arch to do it. Archy’s put him back together enough times that he’s probably earned the reverse. Like those coupon loyalty card things:  _ save Johnny x times, get a free kill with you next order.  _

The elevator opens and Len’s there waiting for him, disapproving as ever. The wheels are new. Johnny might even say they suit him. Lenny’s words don’t hurt. They’re nothing new. 

But Archy saying that he’s done with him, well, that hurts more than he’d thought it could. Even more, bittersweet, when Arch admits he doesn’t think he can do it, can’t trust himself to do Johnny in. Well then. If he’s got a few minutes left, he might as well make it count. So he tells them all, tells them the truth. Tells them who the grass really is, (the bastard kind, not the fun rolling-and-smoking kind). 

And that’s when Daddy dearest fucking shoots him. 

He expects it, but it hurts like a bitch nonetheless. 

Arch is up and moving as Johnny staggers back, Archy’s reliable, sturdy back eclipsing the view of John’s stepfather. If Johnny could think right now, he’d almost believe Arch was protecting him instead of Len’s dignity and backside. 

“Fucking hell, Len. Calm down.” He eases closer and takes the gun from Lenny’s hands. 

"If you wanted to shut me up," Johnny snarks, hand coming up to cover the hole in his chest, “it should have been higher.”

As Danny and the other goons usher him and Roman and Mickey into the lift, to their end, Johnny flashes Arch one final look. Archy doesn’t look back. 

. . .

Mickey and Roman manage themselves alright, which is a good thing too, since Johnny's legs aren't exactly functioning right now and his head feels ready to float right up to the ceiling of the lift. 

He slides down the wall of the lift, sitting among the seeping blood, viscera, and probably some piss, too. A gun in his hand, still warm, feels odd, but out of the three of them, he's the one who knows how to handle it best. The two idiots waiting for them don’t stand a chance. What’s two more bodies on his conscience?

Roman and Mickey help him up and out, and he’ll do his best not to hold the fact that they drop him against them. If he makes it out of this alive. With Handsome Bob driving like crazy through London’s streets, his chances seem bleaker by the minute. He passes out on the back seat, crammed beside Mickey and Roman, to the sounds of One Two swearing his head off. It’s certainly one way to go. 

. . .

It shouldn’t surprise him that Archy’s there when he wakes up, stitched up in a dingy back room with a quivering mess of a doctor standing as far away from Arch as possible. 

“Alright there, Arch?”

There’s a smile on Archy’s lips that Johnny hasn’t seen in years. “Could be better.” The lines around his eyes are tight but the smile isn’t to blame. 

“Yeah, well,” Johnny says, “you're not the one with a gaping hole in your gut, are you?" He tries to sit up, groaning as he fails to do so, laying back on the harsh bed (table perhaps? bench?).

Archy's still smiling though. "No, I'm not. You need to get some rest, John.”

He’s tired enough, hurting enough that he probably should. But Archy’s here, and Archy might not be when he wakes up. If he does. The place doesn’t look to sterile, and besides, after everything that Johnny’s been pumping himself full of all these years, whatever drugs the doc gave him are doing jack shit. 

Fuck, it hurts. It’s going to leave a nasty fucking scar, too. At least, Johnny reckons, Len would have got at least the same, worse even. Arch would’ve taken care of that. “You feed him to the crayfish?” Johnny asks.

A chuckle. “Don't you worry yourself about him, alright? And don’t go dying on me again."

Johnny blinks up wearily at Archy. “Already died a few times, think I’ve still got a few left in me.”

There’s a hand in his hair, and Archy’s still smiling at him, sad around the corners. “No more dying, eh?”

Johnny’s eyelids flutter shut. “I’ll do my best, Arch.” No promises, though. 

* * *

vi. 

It’s three am and Arch only really made it to bed half an hour ago, but his phone is ringing again like it always seems to do, like it seems to do even more since Lenny’s  _ disappearance _ . But he takes it, nonetheless, with a scowling, "yes?”

_ “Uncle Arch,” _ comes a little frantic, a little breathless _ , "I'm dying here." _

Archy sits up in bed. “Johnny? Johnny where are you?”

_ “I’m still here,” _ Johnny says, laughing to himself deliriously, “ _ still here, right where you left me.” _

“Johnny.” 

_ “Sorry, Arch.” _ The apology falls from his lips instinctively and it makes the corner of Arcy’s lip quirks upwards, despite it all. 

“S’alright, what’s on your mind?”

_ “Oh, you know, life, the universe, and everything.” _ A laugh. A pause. “ _ I’m having a rough night, Uncle Arch.” _

There’s been a few of those in Archy’s time, too many more than he’d care to count. Too many nights he’s held Johnny up or down or pulled him out of the toilet bowl in some filthy nightclub, tracking vomit with each footstep all the way to the car. Archy knows how to keep a cool head and even voice, so instead of all the accusations and questions and worry, he says as calmly as he can, “I’m sorry to hear that, John. You want to talk about it?”

Johnny laughs again.  _ “Oh yeah, my good ol’ Uncle Arch, he just loves it when blokes want to talk about their feelings.” _

“Yeah, alright, enough out of you.” It’s light enough that John’ll get the picture that the last thing that Archy wants is for John to hang up, to shut up, to do something stupid like he has a tendency to when he shuts up inside himself enough. “You’re always an exception, you know that.”

_ “Getting soft in your old age?"  _

His teeth are chattering through the phone line, like he's freezing in his always-well-heated room. It must be a bad night, Arch thinks, though it's been worse. He hasn't torn his skin open, screeching on the other side of the phone about ants and beetles and other insects under his skin and crawling out his eyes. 

Archy grunts in answer, lets Johnny keep talking like he obviously needs to keep doing. 

_ “You should come visit. Rehab is nice this time of year. No snow, and all that.” _

“I was there last week, mate, or you forgetting things on me again?”

_ “I remember. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t mind seeing your ugly mug right now. I miss you, Arch. This place is awful.” _

“It’s the best one in the country, John, you’re in good hands there.”

Johnny mutters something that Archy can’t make out, but the petulant tone fills in some of the blanks. 

_ "I miss you," _ he says again, _ "come visit again. Come give me a cuddle, Uncle Arch. Need a good cuddle. They don't let us fraternise here, not even platonically. We all need a bit of fraternisation now and then, don't we? Even you, Arch. The brain atrophies in isolation. Come give us a cuddle." _

“Ey, enough of that. You’re there to get better, and soon as you are, you’ll be home. I’ll come get you myself.”

“ _ Yeah?” _

“Yeah, ‘course. Might be the first time I pick you up from somewhere without having to scrape you off the floor and hose you down before shovelling you into the car.”

“ _ You’ll miss it _ .”

Archy snorts, but doesn’t deny the allegation. He far prefers a clean, grown Johnny, but he’s not sure he’s met him before. First time for everything and all that, he supposes. He might even like the bloke.

“Tomorrow,” Archy decides.

“ _ Tomorrow what, Arch?” _

“I’ll be there tomorrow. Today. Whatever. I’ll be there.

“ _ I know you’re busy, what with all the Len business… _ ”

“I’ll be there.” It's decided then. His meetings can wait. Johnny can't. Or perhaps, more truthfully, he won't make him wait. Archy's been thinking a lot about priorities since Lenny's gone. 

_ "Always there for me, Arch, aren't ya?" _

No, no he's not. He's always been too late to stop the hurt from happening, too late to stop Lenny's belt or gun or Johnny's own mind getting the best of him. 

But Johnny keeps going.  _ "Haven't managed to knock myself off yet, most of that's thanks to you." _

Well that's true. John's still kicking, still causing one hell of a mess with every bloody breath he draws, but he's still kicking. Still alive. Archy can admit he's played a role in that. "You're a hard bugger to kill," he says instead, "you’re a cockroach, pickled on the inside."

Johnny laughs at that, caught off-guard and genuine.  _ "Thank you, Arch." _

If he had a drink, Archy'd down it in one. "I'll see you. Keep the stupidity to a minimum and your hands to yourself. And go the fuck to sleep." Softer, he adds, "take care of yourself, Johnny."

" _ Night, Arch.” _

Archy waits, for the first time in, well, too long, for the person on the other end of the line to hang up first. Maybe he is getting soft. 

* * *

+1

Regardless, Archy does show up the next day, though, and once a week after that. He answers when Johnny calls, which somehow happens to be both more and less often than he’d like. And he shows up when the three months are up and Johnny's ready to come home.

They've already talked about how this isn't the end of his rehab, that he's got meetings and check ups and everything else the doctors think he needs, but Archy has told him time and time again that he'll be there every step of the way. Well, he doesn't say it in as many words, but he's sure John got the picture. 

John looks well as he steps across the lawn, cigarette between his lips. The banter’s nice, back to some weird normal that they haven’t been in a long while. He is getting soft.

"Come on, give us a cuddle." Archy opens his arms and steps forward. Johnny doesn’t move. His Adam’s apple bobs, Archy watching the emotions swallowed down, and he understands. So he keeps on moving forward, meeting John all the way and wrapping his arms around the boy -man- before him. 

He knows Johnny’s move before he makes it, but he let’s him snatch the gun from the waistband of Archy’s trousers. 

“Give us your money, Arch,” Johnny growls, and Archy smiles to see him in a playful mood. 

Honestly, he’d give John anything he asked for right now, money, whatever, anything besides drugs. Fuck, he’s softer than butter left out in the sun. But he tells John, “I can do better than that.” He gets Turbo to open the boot of the car, and watches as Johnny takes in the gift. 

Eyes alight in a way they haven’t been for years, it’s a good sight. Archy isn’t sure how long it will last, Johnny clean and straight and admiring artwork that cost a Russian bastard an arm and a leg. It might not last, he admits to himself, but it’s a start. A fresh start, one they all need. 

. . .

Johnny hangs the painting above his bed. 

For privacy, John says, since the painting is still considered stolen goods. Archy scoffs at that, quips something about every man and their dog being in Johnny’s bedroom at one time or another. That earns him a pout, puppy dog eyes and all. 

Johnny takes over the master bedroom, but not before stripping the entire room clean of any trace of Lenny left in it. The four poster bed gets axed into kindling for a bonfire they throw in the backyard of the manor. The mattress, the dressers, the ugly oil painting of Len’s ugly oily face, anything and everything of Lenny’s that Johnny deems dispensable. Archy cuffs him on the shoulder and tells him the painting’s still crooked. 

It’s good, for John and for Arch. Doing away with the reminders of that bastard is like exorcising a demon lingering in the house. Besides, Lenny’s been missing long enough the coppers have declared him dead, or good enough as. All his assets, courtesy of Stella and Bertie’s work, are left to his next of kin. It’s Johnny’s house now, he may as well make the most of it.

The bonfire is a quiet affair. They stand around the fire, just the two of them, a bottle of scotch passing between them, and let the past burn. And then there’s John, grinning maniacally at him, sharp features illuminated in the firelight, alive.

It’s a lovely sight.

_ FIN _

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! This fandom is dead, but please feel free to leave comments and kudos! They always make my day. Hit me up on my tumblr, second-hand-heaven, if you want to chat!
> 
> -Nova xx


End file.
